


To Find You, Perchance On A Winters Day

by WhatLocked



Series: It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas! [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternative Meeting, Anal Sex, Apparently the universe is occasionally lazy as there are coincidences in this story, Christmas Cards, Christmas Time, Kidfic, Letters, M/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Snowballing, bit of angst, but happiness, completely made up and more than likely unrealistic descriptions of war zones, mentioned drug use, to AdultFic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:59:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8910010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: A five year old Sherlock Holmes writes a letter to Father Christmas.  In a fateful mixup seven year old John Watson receives the letter, and from there an odd friendship blooms and then peters away.Several years later fate steps in again and the two meet once more, once again via letters, this time from a rehabilitating drug addict to a lonely soldier.





	1. The Upside of Undiagnosed Protanopia and the Downside of Growing Up

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a very Christmassy sort of fic, but it turned out completely different to what I had completely planned. But all the same, I hope you enjoy and I wish you all a very merry Christmas!!
> 
> Also, apologies if I have postcodes etc wrong. Clearly, I am not native to England and I just got them off of google maps!
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

**Friday 4th December 1981**

Sherlock stared at the piece of paper before him.  So far he had only written three words:

_Dear Father Christmas_

He honestly didn’t know what to write after that.  His teacher, Mrs Underwood, had said that they needed to practice writing letters, which was ridiculous as Sherlock already knew how to write a letter, and she had said that writing one to Santa would be a good way to practice, as Christmas was only 21 sleeps away.

He looked across the desk to where Lucy was writing her letter.  She had already written half a page detailing why she needed the Sunsational Malibu Barbie.  Sherlock had tried telling her it was spelt SENsational, but she had only told him that it was a girl thing, and he wouldn’t understand, then she had flipped her blonde pony tail over her shoulder and continued writing words incorrectly.  

He looked over to Kevin, who sat to his right.  Kevin was asking for a dog.  That would have been a great idea, if only he didn’t already have Redbeard, and to be honest there would be no other dog that was better than Redbeard anyway.  

With a sigh, Sherlock looked back down at his page with it’s three words written on it.  It was all silly anyway.  Mycroft had already told him that Father Christmas was actually Mummy and Daddy, so does that mean he should be have addressed the letter to his parents instead, or was Mycroft just being a fat head again, like when he told Sherlock that vampires were real.  Sherlock had had to go to bed with garlic for two nights after that before Mummy told Mycroft off and daddy had explained that Mycroft was just teasing.  There were no such thing as vampires.  

Sherlock looked back down at his letter and decided to just write. 

Once finished, Sherlock folded his letter and placed it in the green envelope that the teacher had provided.  He addressed the envelope and sealed it shut and then placed it on top of the yellow envelope which contained a letter that they had had to write to a student from another school.  

That letter read:

_Danes Hill School_

_MAIN SCHOOL_

_Leatherhead Road_

_Oxshott, Surrey_

_KT22 0JG_

_Stockwell Primary School,_

_Stockwell Road,_

_London, United Kingdom,_

_SW9 9TG_

 

_4th December 1981_

 

_Dear Student,_

 

_My teacher, Mrs Underwood has told me that I have to write you this letter other wise I will not pass first grade.  I think that is frightfully absurd as I am the smartest student in the class, even though I skipped year one._

_We are to tell you something about us so, my name is Sherlock and I am five years old.  I have a brother called Mycroft (who is bossy and annoying) and a dog called Redbeard.  He is my best friend.  I like to play the violin and am very good at it._

_I like bees and when I grow up I am going to keep them, just like my Grand-Mere does in France._

_Sincerely yours,_

 

_Sherlock Holmes_

It was just as Sherlock was neatening up his desk that the teacher called out that it was pack up time.  In a flurry, students were opening desks and pushing books and pencils into them.  

“If you leave your letters on the desk I will have people come and collect them.  Holden, if you could collect the yellow letters, and Maisy, if you could please collect the green ones and place them in the boxes up the front” the teacher announced.   The two nominated students went and collected the letters and in the rush of other students packing up for the day, Sherlocks letters got knocked off the desk and onto the floor.  It was a good thing that Holden had seen this happen and instantly went and picked them up.  Unfortunately Holden had undiagnosed Protanopia and, too embarrassed to ask what colour was what, and not bright enough to read the names on the front of the letters he just placed both letters in the any random box and it just so happened that they were the incorrect boxes.  In the rush of teachers wanting to get home for the weekend, one pale green envelope was not noticed amidst a sea of yellow, nor did one yellow envelope stand out, buried amongst a mountain of green ones.  

 

**Tuesday 8th December 1981**

John laid his head on the table a let his eyes go crossed and his tongue loll out of his mouth, staring at the person at the desk next to his.  He knew it wouldn’t take long before Lynette would look his way and before he even counted to five in his head, she looked his way and then screamed.  Quickly, before the teacher could see him, he pulled his tongue in, shifted his eyes in the right direction and sat up straight.

“Miss Wellaby, John was pretending to be dead again” she cried out.  John could see the silent sigh his teacher let out, even though her back was turned to them.

“Ignore him” She called back in a tone that said she didn’t want to deal with this.  John knew that tone.  It was what his mum sounded like at the end of the second week of summer holidays.

“It wasn’t me miss” John called back.

“Yes it was” Lynette screeched before John could even finish denying all charges.

The sigh this time was clearly visible, and audible as well.  She turned from what she was writing on the blackboard and looked at both John and Lynette in turn.  She opened her mouth to speak but was then interrupted by a knock on the door.  Happily, she left of reprimanding the two and went to answer the door instead.  When she came back she was carrying a box.

“Children” She called to get their attention and those who were actually doing work (John couldn’t help it if he was finished.  Thanks to a bout of various illnesses last year this was the second time he was doing year 2, so it wasn’t exactly hard) put down their pencils and looked up at their teacher.  ‘We are going to put away our maths books now” (this resulted in a few cheers from some of the students) “Because I have a surprise for you all.”  (This resulted in cheers from all of the students.)

“Last week, a grade 2 class from Danes Hill School in Oxshott wrote letters to our class.  They have asked if we could please respond to them.  Who knows, maybe you will make a friend along the way.  Lynette, since you seem to be finished your work, would you please hand out one letter to each student in the class.”

“Yes Miss Wellaby” Lynette answered promptly and stood up and strode to the front of the classroom as if she were someone important.  John just rolled his eyes but then looked to the box with rapt interest.  Maybe he would get someone interesting and exciting.  John had friends, but all they liked to do was play rugby or football, which was good fun, but sometimes it got boring.

He watched as Lynette handed out yellow envelopes to everyone and then she reached Johns desk in the back row.  “You can have the green one” she said nastily, dropping the letter on the table and then turning to hand out the remaining letters.  

John looked down at the letter on the desk in front of him and frowned.  It was addressed to Father Christmas.  

“All right children” Miss Wellaby called.  “You can open the letters and read them.  If you have any trouble, ask the student next to you.  If you are still having trouble, put up your hand and I will read it for you.  Once you have read them, I would like you to write a reply letter.”

John put up his hand.  “Yes John.”  She already sounded as if she were regretting acknowledging him.

“I don’t have a letter” he said.

“He does too” Lynette tattled.  “I made sure he got one.  He got a _green_ one.”

“But it’s not got my name on it.”

“No one has their name on it because the students didn’t know your names.  Once you read the letter, you will have their names, so you can write a letter in return and then give them your name.”

By now all of the other students had ripped into their letters, so with a shrug of resignation, John opened the letter and started reading.

_58 Copsem Lane_

_Oxshott, Surrey_

_KT22 0JG_

_The North Pole_

_The Arctic_

 

_21st December 1981_

 

_Dear Santa,_

 

_Mycroft told me that you’re not real and that it was impossible for one man to travel around the world in one night and that flying reindeer defied the laws of physics.  And I suppose that makes sense.  Mycroft (when he is not being a booger brain) is usually right about these things so I guess you are not really real after all.  But I really do you want to be real, so maybe if you are you could bring me one thing this Christmas.  I don’t really need anything, as Mummy makes sure I have enough of everything, and Mycroft got me a microscope for my birthday this year and Grand-Mére got me the bug catching kit I was hoping for.  But next year Mycroft will be going away for school.  That means it is just going to be me and Redbeard, and as much as he does make a perfect first mate, he makes a rubbish prisoner.  He just refuses to walk the plank you see, so I was wondering, if you are really real, if you could see fit to give me a friend for Christmas.  One who won’t call me names and will play pirates.  That is all I really want._

_I hope you have a Merry Christmas, and I will leave out some milk and cookies, just in case._

_Sincerely yours,_

 

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Age 5_

John scratched the back of his head and pondered on how to answer this odd letter.  Clearly it wasn’t meant for him, but the teacher had said that he had to write one back and she was already nearly close to doing that thing where she banged her head against her desk, so he should probably not bother her anymore, so being a boy who liked to sort problems out on his own, John pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and decided to write a letter back Sherlock Holmes, age 5, of Oxshott, Surrey.

 

**Friday 11th December 1981**

Sherlock looked down at the plain white envelope with his name on it.  He hadn’t been expecting a return.  Most people, after talking to him once, didn’t want to talk back.  He had only written the letter because his teacher had asked him to and since he actually liked his teacher he had done it, but now there was a reply.  Someone had actually wanted to write back to him.  With shaky hands, Sherlock picked up the envelope and turned it over.  It was apparently from a John Watson of Lambeth, London.  Carefully he peeled open the envelope and removed the letter, unfolding the neat lines to reveal a slightly longer letter than what he had written.  Half expecting the letter to tell him not bother writing again, Sherlock lowered his eyes to the page and read the words of John Watson.

 

13 Upstall Street

Lambeth, London 

SE11 6DX, UK

_58 Copsem Lane_

_Oxshott, Surrey_

_KT22 0JG_

 

_8th December 1981_

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

 

_Thank you for your letter.  I don’t know anything about flying reindeers or what physics are but I am pretty sure that Father Christmas is indeed real because my mum told me that he was after my sister also told me that he is not, but she just likes to be mean.  It was pretty good though, because she got into trouble for telling me lies and she gets really mad and really red in the face when she gets in trouble._

_I have a bug catching kit too.  My mum got it for me for Christmas last year.  I like catching all sorts of things.  They make Harry scream.  It is my most favourite present._

_Redbeard sounds like a great dog, even if he won’t walk the plank.  I wish we had a dog, but my mum is allergic.  I do have a turtle though.  He’s a bit boring.  He doesn’t really do much.  His name is Scooby after Scooby-Doo._

_I don’t know where Oxshott is, but if you are ever in London I will play pirates with you.  I will even walk the plank._

_Your friend_

 

_John Watson_

_Age 7_

Sherlock re-read the letter and then again.  There must be some sort of mistake.  This John Watson was answering the letter that he had written to Father Christmas.  He thought back to last Friday and ran the events through his head.  He had most definitely placed the Christmas letter in the green envelope and the green envelope was definitely going to Father Christmas, because green is a Christmas colour.  Yellow was not.  He frowned down at the letter.  He wanted to write to this John Watson and tell him that he had no right reading the other letter.  It wasn’t addressed to him.  It was addressed to Father Christmas of the North Pole.  But then he remembered that in the letter, John said that he would play pirates, would even walk the plank.  And he had signed it, _Your Friend_.

Maybe Father Christmas was real and he had given his letter to John so John would know to be his friend.  Sherlock carefully tucked the letter into his little hidden draw in his desk.  He would think on this and write John and response tomorrow.

~o~

 

_58 Copsem Lane_

_Oxshott, Surrey_

_KT22 0JG_

_13 Upstall Street_

_Lambeth, London_

_SE11 6DX, UK_

 

_12th December 1981_

 

_Dear John,_

 

_It appears that you received the wrong letter, but I have decided that that is fine.  My mummy tells me that I should thank you for replying to my previous letter, so thank you.  It is interesting that your sister turns red when she is angry.  I wish Mycroft would do that.  He just glares and then walks away.  It is no fun at all._

_As for your turtle, I can imagine that it would he would be boring and what is a Scooby-Doo._

_I noted that your age was seven.  Why are you still in second year?  Are you stupid?_

_Have you ever been to France?  Can you speak french?  If I wrote you a letter in french, would you be able to read it?  I only ask as that is where we are going for Christmas and when I am in France, I like to speak it and write it._

_To answer your question, Oxshott is 20.1 Miles, south west of London.  Barely an hour away if Daddy drives us there in the car.  Mummy tells me it is impossible to walk there.  I think she just can’t be bothered._

_My stupid brother has just told me that I need to go down for dinner.  Do write back._

 

_Sherlock Holmes._

~o~

The letters between the two continued.  John informed Sherlock, that no, he was not stupid, he just had a bad case of tonsillitis, measles, chicken pox and several bouts of the flu last year so his parents thought it was best that he re-do year two to make up for all the time he missed.  He informed Sherlock that no, he didn’t speak or write french and Scooby-Doo was a dog who solved mysteries.  

Sherlock informed John that he had found a way to make his brother go red.  All he had to do was mention the odd, muffled moaning that came from his bedroom at night.  Sherlock didn’t know what it was, but it certainly turned Mycroft so red he was almost purple.  Unfortunately he then got told off from Mummy for not minding his own business.    He informed John that after viewing three episodes of Scooby-Doo he could honestly say it was the dumbest thing he had ever seen and he had seen Holden trying to do three times tables, but detecting work sure did seem a lot of fun.  It was something to think about over the upcoming holidays.

The holidays were, despite only having Mycroft and Redbeard to play with, the best that Sherlock had had, because, even though mail wasn’t delivered on Christmas day, he did receive a Christmas card two days before the holiday, addressed to him and only him and it was signed by _his friend_ , John.  It was the only Christmas card he had ever been given, so he got to work taking one from Mummy’s pile of cards and wrote it out and sent it off, even though it would not reach John until after the holidays.  He placed his card on the little cupboard next to his bed and it stayed there over Christmas, through new years and well and truely past his birthday.  Every night he looked at the words, _Your Friend, John_ before going to sleep, knowing that Mycroft was wrong (Father Christmas _was_ real) and that he had a friend.  Finally.

~o~

Over the following months the letters came weekly and they grew longer, some spanning as much as five or six pages long.  Sherlock learnt that John played rugby, liked superheroes and his dad was in the army.  His sister was three years older and was a dibber-dobber.  Lynette at school was a bully, but John didn’t mind because she had a pretty smile and he really did hate peas.  

In turn he let John know that Mycroft was leaving for school next year, going to Harrow.  Eventually that was where he would go, but he didn’t want to because he wasn’t allowed to take Redbeard.  He had no friends because people didn’t understand intelligence so they called him names instead.  His teacher was lovely and she read the most wonderful stories and he loved peas.  They were his favourite vegetable.  

Over the summer holidays Sherlock went to London.  John went up to the Lake District.  John broke his arm riding a bike and Sherlock got sunburnt because he forgot to put suncream on his back when he went swimming.  

Once school started they both hated their new teacher and Sherlock got angry because Mummy wouldn’t let him move into Mycrofts room.  It was bigger and got the afternoon sun, whereas Sherlocks got the morning sun, which was no good because he didn’t like to wake up in the morning.  John’s dad came home for two weeks before having to go back over seas.  

Come the next Christmas the two of them had been writing, weekly, for a year.  John sent Sherlock a fossilised worm that he bought at the museum as a present.  Sherlock sent John a book on how to speak french.  They both sent Christmas cards.

Over the Christmas break, Sherlock lost two teeth.  John grew an inch.  Both wrapped up worms from the back yard for their siblings and put them under the Christmas tree.  Both got grounded for a week.  Both thought it was worth it.  

The letters went back and forth over the years, each detailing how they grew and changed, but somehow the two never seemed to meet and it never occurred to either of them to send the other one a photo of themselves, but every Christmas they sent Christmas cards.

John carried on at school, somehow staying out of trouble and Sherlock skipped another grade, putting him a year ahead of John.  This didn’t seem to bother either of them.  

Johns father opted to do another tour and Redbeard passed away.  This bothered both of them deeply.

Letters were sent, along with the odd parcel.  Sometimes newspaper articles about interesting topics were added and sometimes the letters were written in french.  

Sherlock was the only friend that John felt comfortable talking about anything to and John was Sherlocks only friend but as things are wont to do, over the years the boys changed and they developed new interests.  For John it was the army and girls.  For Sherlock, it was self defence and Carl Powers.

~o~

 

_13 Upstall Street_

_Lambeth, London_

_SE11 6DX, UK_

_5 High Street_

_Harrow on the Hill,_

_Middlesex HA1 3HP_

 

_21st September 1989_

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

 

_Hiya, how are things going.  It’s been a busy couple of weeks, sorry I haven’t had time to write.  Rugby started again last week, it looks like it is going to be a good season but I won’t bore you with the details._

_I read the report you sent me on the migration of the Pacific Golden Plover.  Not sure what I’m ever going to do with that information, but it killed twenty minutes.  It was quite lengthy.  In return I have sent you a basic paper, written by a grade three on how the Earth moves around the Sun.  If you could spare two minutes to actually educate yourself on basic primary school science, you’d be surprised at what you are missing out on._

_Anyway, must dash, just a quick letter today.  I have a date.  Lynette finally said yes. Only took two years!_

_Hope this letter finds you well and I hope Mycroft isn’t being too much of an arse._

 

_From John_

 

_~o~_

 

_5 High Street_

_Harrow on the Hill_

_Middlesex HA1 3HP_

_13 Upstall Street_

_Lambeth, London_

_SE11 6DX, UK_

 

_12th October 1989_

 

_Dear John,_

 

_How is this country not overrun with criminals?  The local constabulary, of our capital city I might add, are a bunch of performing monkeys and nothing else.  It is clear that this death was no unfortunate accident (see article attached to back of this letter.)  There is clearly foul play afoot, and no, there was no pun intended, so please spare me the pain of hearing it.  Why would anyone not see the lack of Powers’ shoes as anything but unusual?  But no, they all think it is perfectly normal for a boy to arrive at a swimming contest sans his shoes.  Shoes he apparently loved beyond a level that was healthy if his friends and close ones are to be believed._

_I just cannot comprehend the stupidity of some people, even when it is spelt out for them they still cannot see what is obviously, glaring clear.  CARL POWERS WAS MURDERED!!!_

_And to top it off, I have been given kitchen duty for a fortnight for sneaking out of school again.  Maybe if they didn’t make it so easy, I wouldn’t be so tempted to leave._

_I am starting to understand why half my teachers smoke!_

 

_Sherlock_

~o~

This was how the letters went from then on in.  Short bursts of text, not enquiring as to what the other was doing.  Other people became a part of their lives, other distractions.  It was just too easy to forget to write a quick letter to someone you had never met.  The letters got shorter and shorter and happened less frequently until sooner or later the two of them, not knowing it at the time, wrote their last letters to each other.

~o~

_13 Upstall Street_

_Lambeth, London_

_SE11 6DX, UK_

_5 High Street_

_Harrow on the Hill_

_Middlesex HA1 3HP_

 

_26th January1991_

 

_Sherlock,_

 

_Oh my god, I completely forgot your birthday,  I am such a shit friend.  Why the hell didn’t you write me to yell at me via paper and pen!  Anyway, I hope you had a good day.  I know you would have just bitched and complained, but underneath it all, you really enjoy it.  I sent you a little something.  I’m not sure what you will make of it, but with any luck, you won’t hate it._

_Sorry it’s not a long letter but I am meeting some of my mates for an end of week celebration and with any luck Britney will be there._

_Talk to you soon,_

 

_John_

~o~

_5 High Street_

_Harrow on the Hill_

_Middlesex HA1 3HP_

 

_13 Upstall Street_

_Lambeth, London_

_SE11 6DX, UK_

 

_4th September 1991_

 

_Dear John,_

 

_It has only been three days and I already hate this school more than I did last year.  And I’m already out of fucking cigarettes!_

 

_Sherlock._


	2. A Brief Interlude

~~~~~~~~~~

**Saturday 18th December 1999**

 

John tried not to stumble as he carried himself down the stairs into the club.  It wasn’t really his scene but it was Toby’s 25th Birthday and this is where he wanted to go and John was too drunk to care that the lights were flashing too fast and the music was thumping too loud and it was all far too _poppy_ but that was okay, because, despite already being more than a bit tipsy, John spotted the neon lit bar and headed straight for it, giggling as some random pinched his arse on the way.  

Several times John tried to get the attention of the chic behind the bar but every time, someone taller and dressed in something more tightly fitted or more revealing beat him too it which started to cause his fairly easy mood to drop.  

“What’ll it be, gorgeous?” The girl finally asked and he was about to answer but instead a deep, smooth voice replied.  

“A vodka martini and whatever beer you have on tap for my friend here” and then the girl spun around to fulfil the guys order.  John turned around to tell the other guy to maybe wait his fucking turn but once his eyes landed on the person, who was formally behind him, but was now in front of him, his mouth snapped shut.  Before his eyes was what appeared to be barely enough black t-shirt stretched very tautly across a very firm chest.  His eyes made their way up and were met with another pair of eyes, the pale iris’s (hard to determine actual colour in this light) nearly blown out by very large pupils.  Johns sluggish brain supplied him with _high_ but due to the fact that he was drunk, who the fuck was he to judge.  His mouth, ( _which look very kissable,_ Johns mind unhelpfully supplied) was cocked in a half smirk as he looked down at John.  

“Enjoy” he yelled over the din that was passing as music and leaned forward.  John had the sudden, and very excited thought, that the man was going to kiss him, but then he pulled back and slowly turned away, Martini in hand.  

John blinked a few times and then turned to see a pint of beer waiting in front of him.  Quickly, he grabbed the glass and then pushed through the crowd, looking for someone very tall and very sexy with a head of very curly dark hair.  

By the time he spotted the man, dancing with another guy as equally tall and fit as himself,  John had almost finished (or spilt) all of his beer.  He let out a disappointed sigh.  Of course the guy would be here with someone else.  

If he had looked in that direction for only a few more second, he would have seen the man look up in his direction.  As it was, he wasn’t aware that the man had excused himself from his dancing partner ( _read: abruptly walked away_ ) upon seeing John turn and walk back through the crowd, and slowly took off after him.  

John placed his empty glass on some random flat surface and made his way back towards the bar in order to get something maybe stronger than beer, then he should probably actually go and find Toby and finish celebrating his birthday with his friend.    After all, that was why he was there.  

He managed to finally get a scotch and coke and turned back to the room to find himself face to clavicle with Mr Martini once again.  

“My apologies” the man said, leaning down to utter the words directly into Johns ear so he could be heard of the din of the club and a small shiver ran down Johns spine as the silky voice filled his ear.  “I assumed from the scent of beer that I could smell on you that that was your preferred drink.”

At first, John had no idea what he was talking about, or that he was required to respond, and then he remembered that he was holding another drink, that was not beer.  

He looked back up at the guy and his brain finally caught up to the rest of the conversation.  “No, no.  It’s fine. It…I like beer.”

Even drunk, John knew how stupid he sounded and frantically tried to think of a way to excuse himself before he made a bigger fool of himself.  

“I should probably…”

“Your friend is currently preoccupied, he won’t miss you” Martini yelled in his ear, pointing to Johns left, and when John looked in the direction the finger was pointing he saw Toby pushed up against the wall with a very leggy blonde, clearly not missing John’s presence at all.  

“I’m Scott” the stranger called.

“Umm, John” John replied and for some reason, this brought a huge grin to the other man’s face.

“Tell me, John.  Have you got any plans for tonight?”

John grinned up at him.  “Nothing beyond getting shit faced and having a good time.”

Scott smiled even more.  “Sounds like a marvellous plan” and without warning he plucked the glass out of Johns hand and took a long drink from it.  

John giggled.  “Could use a new partner” he replied taking the glass back from Scott.  “Now that my previous one is somewhat preoccupied” and he went to go drink the rest of his drink, but before he could swallow the whole lot down, the glass was once again plucked from his hand, causing him to spill some down his chin. 

“To having a good time together then” Scott toasted and finished off the drink, dropping the empty glass into a pot plant that was next to him.  

“To a good time” John giggled and went to have a drink only to remember, too late, that his drink had been drunk, and most of it not by him.

“Might I just add that in order to have a good time for longer you should probably not mix drinks” Scott said, leaning in too close again.  “The mixture of different types of congeners, which all react in your body differently , can quite often cause undesired results.”

John couldn’t help but stare at Scott, none of his words actually registering anything that made sense.  The mans voice truely was its own form of sex toy.  If John wasn’t feeling extremely randy right then he might even suggest trying to get off on that voice alone, but as it was his little brain was telling his big brain to grab hold of this man and don’t let go until orgasm had been reached, at least once.

“I have no idea what you just said then, but fuck it was hot.”  John only just caught the look of confusion on Scott’s face before he crashed their lips together.    They were quite happily snogging in a sloppy, uncoordinated way when Scott pulled away.  

“How can something, you didn’t understand be construed as hot?”

A deep. salacious chuckle rumbled through Johns chest, as he grabbed Scott’s hand and pulled him closer again.  “You obviously don’t listen to yourself when you speak” he said by way of explanation and then pulled the taller man into another graceless kiss, his left hand snaking down and groping a firm, lush arse.  Both men groaned.

“Come back to mine, it’s not far” John panted, forcing himself to pull away from Scott’s mouth.  Scott’s answer was to grab John’s wrist and pull him towards the exit of the club, not caring who he knocked into on their way.  All John could do was giggle and hurry up or be dragged along.  

 

The taxi ride was only five minutes but it felt like five years as the two of them sat next to each other, close enough for their thighs and shoulders to be pushed up against the others.  The tension of not being able to touch each other was practically palpable, thrumming in the heated air of the back seat of the cab.  

The relief of finally tumbling out, in front of a small block of units, was a physical relief and as the taxi sped off the two found themselves all hands and lips again as they stumbled blindly towards the door of the building.  It took longer than it probably should have for them to climb two flights of stairs and get into the flat, but to be fair, neither were sober and both were occupying themselves with activities far more interesting then mounting stairs and navigating keys into locks.  

Once inside it took a remarkably small amount of time to get to Johns room and undressed, even with the stumbles and the almost fall when John had removed his socks a bit too quickly.

After regaining his balance he went to reach for Scott, only to have Scott push him away hard enough for him to fall back on to the mattress with an unexpected _umph._

“Condoms are in the…” but before he could get any further, Scott was on his knees between Johns knees and without any warning had engulfed half of Johns cock with his very lush, very fuckable mouth.  

“Jesus…god…that’s…oh, yeah!”  Johns hands went to the back of Scotts hair, his fingers tangling the curls around his fingers, all thoughts of condoms gone, his drunk addled brain deciding it was all fine anyway - he was clean.

Scott worked his way down Johns length, taking in most of it.  What he couldn’t get in his mouth, he covered with his fingers of his left hand and with the spit slicked fingers of his right hand (when did he do that?) he started opening John up, one long finger sliding into his hole with as much warning as John had had with the blowjob.  

A startled grunt rushed up Johns throat but it was soon replaced with deep groaning as the finger started to thrust in time with Scotts mouth.  

“Fuck, yes, god, yes” John panted and Scott seemed to take this as indication for another finger as suddenly there was two inside of him, thrusting and scissoring, making John burn in the most pleasurable way.  It was when Scot pushed the third finger in, and crooked them, just so, that John finally lost it, and stuttering out the briefest of warnings, he came with just the head of his cock in Scott’s mouth.  

“ _Huhhhgh_ ” was all noise that John could make and Scott pulled off of his cock completely, his fingers pulling out of his abruptly as they had entered and he pushed off of the floor and laid himself over Johns body, attaching his lips to Johns once again.  Once more, John was caught off guard, when Scott pushed his tongue into Johns mouth and it was followed by warm, salty fluid.  It took John a few seconds to realise that it was his own come that had just been deposited into his mouth and his first thought was to swallow it, but then Scotts tongue was swiping through it, almost rubbing it into his own tongue.  John pulled away, clamping his mouth shut to keep it inside and just as abruptly as Scott had pushed him onto the bed, John flipped them over, returning his mouth to Scotts surprised one and deposited the come back into Scotts.  John could feel the smile against  his own mouth before he felt, and heard, Scott swallow the whole lot down.  

“You were saying something about condoms, earlier” the man under him growled, rolling his hips to alert John to his still, very hard erection.  

John wasted no time scrambling off of Scott and crawling over to the bedside table, yanking open the draw and pulling out a small foil packet.  He threw it to Scott and then fumbled around for the lube, which he flourished triumphantly as he rolled back to lie next to Scott, who was just rolling the rubber onto his cock.  Without a word, he plucked the lube out of Johns hand, squeezed a generous amount onto his hands ( _and what beautifully large hands they were_ , John thought to himself) and slathered it down the length of his cock.  He then rolled over John and lined up.  John brought his legs up around Scotts waist and thrust up, pushing the head in and both men hissed at the feeling.

“Don’t be gentle on my account” John husked out and Scott pushed all the way in with one fluid motion, causing John to groan and his penis to start twitching again.  

From then on in it was hard and fast.  The two of them kissed and groped and fucked.  John let his nails scrape down Scotts back and Scott used his hands to bring John back to full hardness.  Moans and grunts and curses filled the room and sweat covered their bodies, despite the chill in the unheated room.  Scott’s grasp on the sheet was so tight that the elastic around the corners untucked and somehow the pillow, that had been under Johns head, was now wedged between Scotts ankles, but neither of them cared because the only thing they were aware of was the feeling of ecstasy that was filling them up and once it got too much Scott let out a deep and guttural groan and his body tensed, his hand stopping all movement on Johns cock and he came and came and came.  The sight alone almost sent John over the edge and he quickly replaced Scotts hand with his own and after a few more tugs he too was coming, again, his legs tightening around Scotts hips and his arse muscles squeezing Scott’s slackening penis.  It only caused the man above him to groan once more and his hips thrust into John again.

Scott ungracefully flopped down onto John and John let his legs fall away to the mattress, splayed out in a most inelegant fashion and the two of them didn’t move for a good minute and a half.  

When they did it was so Scott could roll the condom off, tie it and chuck it in the bin he had noted was by the bed and John rummaged around until he found a pair of pants to clean them up with.  Once that was done, Scott made himself quite comfortable on Johns bed and John found that he didn’t mind at all.  He pulled the quilt up over the both of them, laid down next to Scott and the two of them fell into a sleep brought on by frantic sex, orgasm inducing hormones and the process of sobering up.

~o~

Sherlock didn’t need to open his eyes to know that he wasn’t in his own bed.  The mattress was too soft and god only knew what the sheets were made out of, but sand paper would have been kinder.  The smell of long smoked cigarettes, stale beer and sweat filled his nostrils and memories of the previous night came trickling back.  The club, the coke and the short man.  _John_ his brain sluggishly supplied and a small scoff puffed past his lips.  Clearly a fake name, which wasn’t surprising.  He himself used a fake name with everyone he went home with and as far as fake names went, it was easy to remember, he supposed.  Sherlock slowly cracked his eyes open and found himself to be in a very tiny room, on a bed barely big enough to be called a double, with a very naked and heavily asleep man splayed out next to him.  A small sigh left his mouth.  As a general rule Sherlock did not spend the night.  Whenever he spent the night the person he had gone home with either woke up ashamed at what they had done and threatened him to keep his mouth shut, _or else_ , or they thought that because he had spent the night that meant they were in a _relationship._   Sherlock sneered at the thought.  

If he had to guess, this guy was definitely one of the latter.  If his memories, still fuzzy though they were, were anything to go by the other man in the bed with him was no stranger to sex with another man, despite the brassiere that was slung over the wardrobe door (clearly too small for this mans chest width, so that ruled out cross dressing) so he doubted panic would set in.  

Slowly, so as not to wake the man, Sherlock sat up and looked around for his clothes. He found his socks first, and put them on.  Next was his t-shirt and then his pants.  He grimaced at the state the pants were in - obviously this is what had been used to clean up afterwards - and dropped them back onto the floor, deciding _John_ could deal with them when he woke up.  Quickly locating his jeans, he slid into them and then snuck out of the room, grabbing his shoes on the way.

He made his way from the bedroom to the living room, looking around at the mans tiny apartment.  There was a rucksack by the door, half covering a pair of well worn sneakers.  On the coffee table sat three medical text books and a predictable looking crime novel.  The collection of CD’s varied with grunge, jazz and contemporary, and surprisingly one album of classical music.  

Sherlock sat in the orange and brown striped armchair and slid his shoes on, lacing them up as he continued to look around.  

The sight of a small Christmas tree next tot the telly and a few Christmas cards on the mantel made him roll his eyes.  It was all so pointless.  It didn’t stop him from standing up and studying the cards, though.   There were five in total.  At a glance Sherlock could deduce who they would have been from.  The biggest one, very traditionally festive, was clearly from a family member, possibly parents.  The one with the disgustingly cute (and somewhat mildly familiar) snow people holding hands was obviously from a hopeful suitor, a would be girlfriend most likely, and a possible contender if the over handling of the card was anything to go by.  An elderly relative or friend of the family was obviously responsible for the nativity scene and whomever was at the club with John last night was more than likely the giver of the card depicting a snowman getting a blow job from a vacuum cleaner.  A small square card,  with a simple Christmas tree on it was no doubt from a work colleague.  Picking the traditionally festive one up, he opened and read it.

_Dear John,_

_Merry Christmas_

_Love Mum._

_xoxox_

Sherlock let out a single huff of laughter.  The man’s name really was John.  The small smile left his mouth as he thought of the small collection of Christmas cards he had once collected.  Ten in total, and all from his own John.  They had been the only Christmas cards he had ever received in his life.  The pensive look on his face turned into a scowl.  It was a stupid tradition and completely pointless.  In less than a fortnight those cards would be thrown in the bin and never thought of again.  

He slammed the card back on the mantel, not caring that it bent the edges and sent the card of the snowmen fluttering to the ground.  He then turned around and quietly stalked out of the flat, bracing himself for the cold that he knew was going to hit him.  He grumbled to himself as he realised he wasn’t going to be able to go straight home.  He was going to have to go break into the now very empty club.  Between the drugs and John he hadn’t thought to grab his coat before he left the club last night.

~o~

Later that day, well and truely after lunch, John awoke to a disgusting hangover, a dull aching in his backside,  vague memories of dark curls, talented hands and long lean muscles and an empty bed.  

When he got up and made himself a strong coffee he noted something on the floor.  Picking it up it was to find that it was one of his Christmas cards, the one that he told himself every year that he was going to throw out.  He picked it up, a small smile perking up the corners of his mouth as he looked at the sickly sweet pictures of two snowmen…people…holding hands.  He didn’t need to open it up.  He had read the same verse, at least once, every Christmas for the past eighteen years.

_To John,_

 

_I know that this card is going to reach you after Christmas, and Mummy tells me that that is okay because it is the thought that counts.  I do hope you have a very not boring holiday._

_Joyeux Noël_

_(That is Merry Christmas in French, by the way)_

_Your friend,_

 

_Sherlock_

Carefully, he placed it back on the mantel with his few other cards and then made for the bathroom.  He needed to scrub out whatever had crawled in his mouth and died and maybe wash away the remains of last night.


	3. Clinics, Deserts and Salmon Coloured Cupboards

_~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_c/o Refocus Rehabilitation Clinic_

_201 Kelston Rd_

_Bath BA1, UK_

 

_c/o British Army_

_Somewhere that is most likely hot and dry_

 

_2nd December 2008_

 

_Dear Solider_

 

 _Is that even how I address you?  Well, due to the fact that I know not your name or rank, I guess_ Soldier _will just have to suffice._

 _This won’t be a long letter, just a quick thing to say Merry Christmas and to keep my support worker off of my back.  It seems that writing to those less fortunate than myself will help rid me of my craving for cocaine.  I’m not too sure what makes you less fortunate than myself, after all - you did put yourself in that position.  For all I know, you are having the time of your life, nor do I see how writing this will ‘_ make me better _’ but if I want to get out of here any time soon, then the three minutes it has taken me to write this is definitely worth it._

_So, Merry Christmas, all the best for the upcoming year and do try not to get shot._

 

_Sherlock Holmes._

~o~

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

_c/o Refocus Rehabilitation Clinic_

_201 Kelston Rd_

_Bath BA1, UK_

 

_19th December 2008_

 

_Dear Sherlock_

 

_No fucking way!_

 

_Captain John Watson,_

_Formerly of Lambeth, London_

~o~

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

_c/o Refocus Rehabilitation Clinic_

_201 Kelston Rd_

_Bath BA1, UK_

 

_19th December 2008_

 

_Dear Sherlock_

 

_I realise that my last letter was fairly lacking, but I honestly could not believe that you were writing to me, once again, and at Christmas time.  What are the chances.  (That was a rhetorical question, by the way.)_

_It was a surprise, really, to get a letter, any letter, but apparently I was in for more surprises once I opened that letter._

_God, you made me laugh.  It is good to see that you are just as blunt and to the point as always, and yes it is fucking dry and hot here.  When I get back to London I will never complain about the rain again._

_You are right, I put myself in this situation, but it is far from enjoyable, apart from the few momentous occasions, but unfortunately they are far and few between.  And you are also right in implying that there are those who are less fortunate than myself.  I see it every day, but that is not at all what I want to talk about._

_Christ, how long has it been?  Fifteen, sixteen years?  Of course, there is always the possibility that you are another Sherlock Holmes and have absolutely no idea what I am talking about but I know what you think about coincidences._

_What have you been up to?  Obviously I followed in my dad’s footsteps and joined the army as a member of the RAMC.  I am chief surgeon in our little set-up.  It is hard work, but it is worth it.  Most of the time._

_Unfortunately I don’t have much time to write, but it was good hearing from you.  Please, write me again and, not that the letter will reach you in time, but have a Merry Christmas._

 

_From, John_

~o~

**Monday 5th January 2009**

 

Sherlock stared down at the letter in his hand.  Again.  He hadn’t expected a response, especially after he had purposely been rude, brash and disrespectful, but here it was, and from none other than one John Watson.  Surely it couldn’t be the same, after all, it was a very common name.  

Sherlock opened the letter, once again expecting to be told to piss off, only to find three words.

_No fucking way!_

The letter fell from his fingers and floated to the floor.  Apparently it was that John Watson.  Sherlock thought over the letter, if it could be called that.  He hadn’t heard from John for seventeen and half years, give or take a few months.  Their letters, once regular occurrences that Sherlock had craved and looked forward to, waiting at the letterbox until he had received his weekly letter had turned into something that happened only once every now and then.  It hadn’t been anyones fault.  They had both stopped making the effort, but that was because that particular relationship had run its course.  There was nothing left to say to each other.  They had grown apart, if they had ever really been together.  Two people, separated by miles and connected only by ink and parchment.  Neither of them had even bothered to try and personally meet the other, so it was inevitable that they would eventually stop communicating when there were more physical distractions to occupy their time - people and things that were there, on hand, straight away.  

But here he was again.  Just three words.  And what was Sherlock supposed to make of those three words.  _No fucking way_ , he couldn’t believe that Sherlock had managed to write to him again, or _No fucking way_ , he didn’t want to get involved with Sherlock again, regardless of how distant they were.  He was just deciding that it was the latter when there was another knock on his door.  

“Another letter Holmes” came the voice of the orderly, too dull for even Sherlock to want to deduce.  “Got mixed up in Ward D’s.”

He handed the letter to Sherlock and left, not that Sherlock noticed.  He was too busy observing that the handwriting on the front of this letter was exactly the same as what was on the envelope he had just opened.  John had written another letter.  Not even hesitating, Sherlock ripped into the letter and read.  

After going through the correspondence three times he took himself out of his room, down to the shared area and procured a piece of paper and a pen from the nurse on duty.  He then sat down to write. 

~o~

_Refocus Rehabilitation Clinic_

_201 Kelston Rd_

_Bath BA1, UK_

 

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

 

_5th January 2009_

_Dear John,_

 

_First up, I must inform you that no, it was no sheer coincidence that you had received a different pen pal, twice, of the same name.  I am indeed the very same Sherlock Holmes, formerly of Oxshott, but as much as I abhor the idea of coincidences the only other way that this, us reconnecting once more, and at Christmas time as you noted, could have been purposefully crafted were if my interfering brother had had a hand in it, and I doubt he even remembers that I had a pen pal in my younger years, let alone his name, so I will just have to swallow my words and concede that for once the universe was so lazy.  It is a sheer chance, which I shan’t bother you with the actual numbers, that we have apparently once again managed to seek each other out via letter._

_I must admit that I was surprised to hear that you had followed your fathers choice of career to join the army but if memory serves me right, which it always does, you always did have a penchant for dangerous situations.  As for becoming a doctor, it is not something I would have guessed but is no surprise.  You also always did like helping people._

_It has been seventeen and a half years since we corresponded last and while it appears you have been busy building up a rather admiral career for yourself, I have done very little in the way of such things.  I completed a graduate degree in Chemistry and on the odd occasion do find myself assisting the police with cases, but beyond that my life, as you have no doubt concluded, is a wreck.  No surprise there, Mycroft did always tell me that I was self destructive, and who am I to prove him wrong._

_But I digress, I did not write this letter to drag you down with my tale of woe.  I wrote to tell you that I appreciated your effort at connecting with me again, at least with your second letter, but please do not feel obliged on my behalf to continue.   As you noted, I have not changed since my younger years except to say that I have less tolerance for other peoples stupidity these days._

_I am pleased to hear that you are currently enjoying your current life and I cannot think of a better man who deserves to be where he wants to be._

_My previous sentiment still stands, please try not to get shot while over there._

 

_Sherlock Holmes._

~o~

**Tuesday 20th January 2009**

John wanted to rip the letter in half.  That fucking arsehole!  Sherlock had always been sharp tongued and to the point and he had never suffered fools at all, let alone lightly, but self pitying was not something he had ever been before.  Granted many years, seventeen and a half apparently, had passed and maybe his life hadn’t gone the way he had planned, if he had planned at all, but that didn’t give the man the right to fall into a melancholy stupor of self pity and depression.  It most certainly did not give him the right to accuse John of writing back as _just an obligation_.  

Granted, what they had developed as young children had faded away, but Sherlock had still been the most interesting person he had ever met.  Several times he had thought of looking him up to see if he could reconnect but then he had realised that Sherlock had advanced beyond John and Johns interests would not entertain Sherlock.  It was obviously the reason they had stopped writing in the first place.  They were just too different.  But if Sherlock didn’t want to talk to him now then he could damn well own it.  He was not going to hide behind the excuse that it was John who didn’t want to communicate.  John reached under his bed and yanked out the small box he kept writing supplies in and, trying to keep his anger in check, he started a new letter to Sherlock Holmes, formerly of Oxshott.

~o~

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

_c/o Refocus Rehabilitation Clinic_

_201 Kelston Rd_

_Bath BA1, UK_

 

_20th January 2009_

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

 

_You fucking idiot.  If I hadn’t wanted to write back to you I never would have.  Trust me, it is not out of a sense of duty or moral obligation and definitely not out of pity.  I wrote back to you, you twat, because I wanted to.  Because I had enjoyed our previous correspondences when we were younger and while I understand that we are both two completely different people now I thought maybe we could have recaptured a part of what we had.  It is always good to be able to talk to someone who isn’t experiencing here and now._

_I don’t give a shit if what you have to say isn’t uplifting and all sunshine and roses.  Obviously you are where you are for a reason and if you writing about it will help you in any way or any amount then I will be happy to be the receiver of shitty news.  I'm certainly going to be the barer of it from  time to time._

_So, if you could see to pull yourself out of your little pity-party, get your head out of your arse and man the fuck up, I would love to hear back from you again, even if it is to tell me to shove off, but only if you really don’t want to hear from me again and not because you have some deep-seated view that I don’t want anything to do with you._

_An as for having an infallible memory, please remind me how long it takes for the earth to orbit the sun._

_Sincerely,_

 

_John Watson._

~o~

As they had both hoped, the letters continued.  Every few weeks, depending on what was happening in Johns life, letters would exchange.  Sherlock informed John, once again, that he hadn’t forgotten about the solar system, but had purposely deleted it.  He groused about his brothers choice of rehab centre ( _Bath! John.  Why would he choose Bath?_ ) and the severe stupidity of the staff that ran the facility.  He also detailed some of the cases he had carried out for the Yard before being locked up in an institution run by quacks and zealots.  Then there was the irony that two of the orderly’s and one of the nurses, who worked at the Drug Rehab Centre, were regular consumers of marijuana.  

John told Sherlock about the fact that he lost a round of strip poker, having to make it back to his tent starkers (thank god it was 2 in the morning), the frustration of not having the proper equipment or the time to save the lives that he lost on the operating table and recounted the woes of his sister, who had predictably fallen into the role of an alcoholic.  (Sherlock had noted the signs years ago, and had told John as such but figured it would be bad form to say _I told you so.)_

Some times the letters came frequently and sometimes Sherlock fretted when they took a bit longer than usual.  One time Sherlocks letter was delayed as he had privileges taken away due to breaking into the records room and reordered all the files by those who were likely to stay clean and those who would fall back off the wagon and going the extra mile be ordering the latter by those who would take the longest through to those who would seek a fix the second they walked out the door.  (He made a note on the final file stating that the patient already had it organised.)

For three months this went on, regular letters, some short, some quite lengthy.  Some contained small gifts (from John) while others contained interesting newspaper articles of what was happening around London (from Sherlock - they all centred around one form of crime or another and all had a plausible theory on who had done it and why scribbled throughout the article in Sherlocks messy hand).  They told amusing stories, stories of woe and rambled on about the idleness of their surroundings (more so Sherlock than John).  Sherlock missed his violin and experiments but found correcting the counsellor during ‘ _Group Circle Time_ ’ to be far more interesting then it should have been.  John missed decent tea but thoroughly enjoyed mantu dumplings.  Sherlock reminded John of a few french words and phrases and John taught Sherlock how to swear in Pashto and Dari  and it was easy to fall back into the easy, long distant friendship that they had had a long time ago.  

~o~

_14C Montague St_

_London EC1A, UK_

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

 

_9th April 2009_

_Dear John,_

 

_I am assuming you are observant enough to note that I am finally out of that dreaded facility and back in London, where I should have been all along.  I have managed to get myself an apartment.  It is…small and the neighbours have regular, loud and very enthusiastic couplings every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday night, between the hours of 10:13 and 11:57 pm.  I suppose I should be thankful that they have a predictable schedule as this allows me to make sure I am not in my flat, or at least have something to preoccupy myself with that drowns out all other external stimuli._

_The walls are a dull white and for some reason the owner thought salmon would be a good colour for the kitchen cupboards, but I suppose I am not here for the interior decorating._

_Lestrade is finally allowing me on cases again, but unfortunately the insipid viper of a sergeant that he had acquired, just before my brother sent me away, has taken on a permanent role in his team.  He has told me that if I keep my comments to myself and give her a chance then Donovan and I might just get along.  I won’t hold my breath, although the new head of forensics looks like he may hold some potential.  Only time will tell._

_I am also thinking of taking on a few clients myself, actual paying ones, since my brother still doesn’t trust me with my own funds.  Liquid nitrogen canisters are not going to pay for themselves after all._

_On that note, it is 10:10 Thursday night.  Time for me to make myself scarce lest I hear how much harder Tracy wants Owen to pound into her again.  (Apparently it is on par with that of a jackhammer, if you were curious.)_

_I hope the weather is not too disgusting and please, as always, try not to get shot._

 

_Sherlock_

_~o~_

 

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

_14C Montague St_

_London EC1A, UK_

 

24th April 2009

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

 

_What in the fuck could you possibly want liquid nitrogen for.  No, scrap that, where do you even buy liquid nitrogen from??  Do they sell it in stores?  Can I run down to Tesco or can I nip into to Marks & Spencer next time I’m home?  _

_At least your neighbours are only at it three nights a week.  I have to put up with several men, every night of the week, trying to be quiet while coupling with their own fist.  Well, at least most of them try to be quiet about it.  Then there is Newman, who likes to let everyone know exactly when he is masturbating and who it is he is masturbating about.  Thankfully I have never been in any of his fantasies, it might make next time checking his tonsils a bit awkward.  And, no, I wasn’t at all curious as to how hard Owen could pound into poor Tracy.  Please feel free to leave out any further details of your neighbours sex life and I won’t divulge anymore of Newman’s, unless, of course, you are curious._

_You could always give them a taste of their own medicine.  Surely you could rustle up an enthusiastic someone and see if the two of you can’t out-scream them.  Who knows, maybe you could get the police called.  That’s always entertaining!_

_What I wouldn’t give for salmon coloured cupboards.  You should count yourself lucky.  Do you know what colour the cupboards in our dining area are?  Army green.  And the colour of the linen?  Army green.  Then there is the wonderful shade of army green that they have given the lino, the clothes, the vehicles, the shower cubicles.  I get that it is a nice colour and all, but would a bit of blue, or a splash of yellow really kill them?  And yes, even a hint of salmon.  Let me relive the eighties!_

_It’s fantastic news that you’re back on cases.  You must write me some of the more interesting ones.  And give Donovan a chance, yeah.  You never know who will make a good ally._

_Unfortunately the weather is disgusting here.  We are apparently expecting a sandstorm in the upcoming week.  That’s always something to look forward to.  It is amazing the places on ones body that sand can collect, and to be honest, I would have been happy going my entire life without experiencing it.  Oh well.  I guess it’ll give me something to tell the grandkids one day._

_I hope this letter finds you well and not in pieces from blowing yourself up with whatever other chemicals you manage to get your hands on._

 

_John._

~o~

_14C Montague St_

_London EC1A, UK_

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

 

_13th May 2009_

_Dear John,_

 

_It’s a deal.  There will be no further discussion of our neighbours sex lives in the near future, except to say that Newman would be a fool not to include you in his fantasies.  I’m sure you make perfectly satisfactory wanking material.   As for trying to out do the my neighbours, let us never bring that one up again, shall we._

_I hope the sandstorm didn’t leave you feeling too gritty but I am certain I would prefer that then having to spend one more minute dealing with the head of forensics.  Delete whatever it was I said about him in my last letter.  The man is an idiot.  In fact, if your regular, every day idiots would think someone else was an idiot, it would be Anderson.  The man wouldn’t know what was useful evidence was if there was a sign painted in bright yellow paint detailing the killers name, address and drivers licence number.  My god, it is painful.  Lestrade has prohibited me from talking to him directly because I apparently make the man cry._

_I’m not sure what chemistry classes you took at university, John, but surely you must know that liquid nitrogen is not a restricted substance.  You can buy it in bulk,_ legally _, from several reputable dealers.  Since you worry so much though, I shan’t detail what other substances I have managed to purchase over the years, and not once have I blown myself up, thank you very much._

_The salmon coloured cupboards have grown on me, or at least they would  have, did I not constantly have them covered with various different pieces of equipment._

_Mycroft paid a visit today.  Apparently Mummy is worried.  (When isn’t she?)  He has managed to talk me into a trip down to visit them this weekend.  It was either that or she was going to cancel her and fathers trip to Greece in order to come down and visit me, here, in London.  I saw me going there as the lesser of the two evils._

_Here’s hoping I survive the weekend and please, don’t get shot._

 

_Sherlock._

~o~

**Monday 25th May 2009**

John couldn’t help the blush when he read Sherlocks words.  ‘ _Newman would be a fool not to include you in his fantasies.  I’m sure you make perfectly satisfactory wanking material.’_ It shouldn’t have made him blush _._   It wasn’t even a real compliment but for some reason, the thought of the man thinking about him and wanking in the same context did familiar things to his insides.  He hadn’t even seen the man before, had never heard him speak. They had never even provided each other with a description of what they looked like, yet here John was blushing like a twelve year old girl who had just received a letter from her all time crush.  Pushing his feelings aside (after all, it had been a while since he got laid) he continued to read the rest of the letter, laughing at his description of Anderson and cringing at the thought of Sherlock playing around with highly volatile chemicals.  

Finishing the letter, he folded it up and placed it with all the others he had received from Sherlock, inside the box he kept his writing supplies in.  He was just about to pull out a fresh piece of paper and start his own letter when Murray came tearing into his tent.    
“Watson, Hillier is coding.  They want you there now, there.”

John didn’t even think twice, he got up, not noticing the box of letters spilling onto the floor and ran with Murray to the ward where his latest patient was.  His hopes that after eight and a half hours of surgery the boy was going to pull through diminished.  Later that night they had been completely dashed as John filled out the death certificate for one Jason Michael Gerard Hillier, age twenty one, from Liverpool.  

As he trudged back to his bed he heard paper crinkling underfoot.  Looking down, he saw the mess he had made when he left the room earlier.  It was an effort to bend down and pick up each letter and loose sheaf of paper, but he did, placing everything neatly back into the box with the intentions of going to bed and sleeping away the feeling of hopelessness and guilt that was snowballing in his stomach.  What he did instead, was pull out a piece of paper and a pen and write to Sherlock.  

By the time he had finished, he was able to sleep dreamlessly.

~o~

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

_14C Montague St_

_London EC1A, UK_

 

25th 26th May 2009

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Sometimes I wonder why I do this job.  The horrors I have seen are enough to fuel my nightmares for a lifetime, and it is not the gunshot wounds, or the burns or the half blown limbs that I talk about when I say the horrors.  It is the fact that those wounds were inflicted by another person, and for what?  For power, for money, because one person didn’t have the same beliefs as another person or because someone was in the wrong place at the wrong time and because someone got their kicks from hurting other people._

_When I became a doctor, I wanted to help people, to sooth their ails, to make the sick better.  I was young, and stupid and naive to think that man wasn’t capable of the sick things I have seen since I joined the army.  Even my work in A &E couldn’t prepare me for what I see here and there were some pretty horrific things in the hospitals._

_Just last week I patched up a four year old boy who had got caught in the crossfire of a shootout in the town near our base.  He lived, but he will never walk again.  In a country like this, that means he has no life, so to speak.  His family are poor and they would have relied on him to work, to help them get by once he got older.  Now he will be a burden. That is if he survives for very long._

_Yesterday morning I patched up a young soldier.  He thought he was helping someone who had come in injured.  Once he got close, she attacked him with a peshkabz which she had somehow concealed and basically gutted him.  She was shot, but not killed and he was rushed into surgery.  He was being prepped to fly out to Camp Bastian for better care, but then suddenly his very fragile condition worsened.  Last night, after more surgery, he died.  He was 21 years old._

_When I told the girl that he was dead, she just smiled at me and said ‘Good.”_

_I don’t know why she did what she did, although I could hazard a guess, but to be honest, I don’t really want to know._

_Every day we see injury.  Pointless, mindless injury inflicted upon one person by another.  We hear every excuse under the sun as to why that injury was inflicted - it is never justified.  If they are lucky they walk out of here, sometimes only to be back in the surgery for another reason, because there was another gun fight, or another bombing or another family got tortured because their husband and father was deemed a traitor to some fucking cause or another._

_Sometimes I just want to fucking give up, but if I do that, who will be here for these people._

_Sometimes I think it would just be better if we all bombed ourselves into extinction._

_But then one of our nurses delivers a baby, or a mother brings her child in when we have vaccination clinics open and she cries as she hugs us for saving her child or an old man blesses us for saving his son’s life or one of our own survives and isn’t invalided to life of pain and disability and you get a feeling that you are actually doing the right thing and that maybe the human race isn’t such a shit species after all._

_Apologies.  I had no intention of witting you such a depressing letter.  I had all intentions of regaling you with stories of what I got up to on my weekend R &R but to be honest, I don’t much feel like thinking about it.  Maybe next time.  _

_I hope this letter finds you in a better mood than I myself am in and as always, I look forward to your next letter._

 

_John._

_PS:  I am sure you would make perfectly satisfactory wanking material, also!_

~o~

Sherlock received Johns letter and instantly felt the need to try and make John’s life better, whilst ignoring the way his brain had tripped at the post script at the end of Johns letter.  It wasn’t as if Sherlock was a stranger, or adverse to sex, it was just that it had been a while and for some reason the thought of sex with John, a man he had never met, suddenly made him start thinking about it again, which just wasn’t on.  He just didn’t need that sort of distraction in his life.  So instead he set about finding the perfect gift to cheer John up, which proved to be harder than he originally thought.  

In the end Sherlock put together a package that contained six different types of decent tea, three dozen of Mummy’s biscuits, in a variety of flavours,  a book called _Killer_ by Sara Shepard (the woman at the shop said it was very popular and riveting), a bottle of Ambrette 9 Shower Gel (apparently it relaxes the mind) and a Chillow, (with the hopes that John would have access to a refrigerator for 15 - 30 minutes before bed each night.)

He boxed up the items and addressed them to John along with the details of his latest case, all of Anderson’s blunders included.  

John received the parcel and loved every item it contained.  He wrote back, thanking Sherlock for his gifts, detailing his and Murray’s shenanigans of their weekend away, and wrote about two of the nurses getting caught shagging in their commanding officers room.  He told Sherlock that he had applied for extended leave over Christmas and was thinking of heading back to London.  

Sherlock, not knowing what to do with the information, didn’t bring up Johns leave and instead sent him articles on what used to his favourite rugby team, who, according to Lestrade, should just drop out of the game now.

For three more months the letters continued.  They kept them light and casual but both, unknown to the other, was building up an infatuation with the other person of whom they had never met.  It was three more months of letters being written and feelings building up and ignored and then John sent a letter telling Sherlock that his leave over Christmas had been approved.

“ _I’m coming home for two weeks_ ” John had written.  “ _It’s okay if you don’t want to, but I thought, after all this time, it might actually be good to catch up for a coffee or something_.”

For some reason, this had sent Sherlock into a micro-panic and instead of writing a simple, thanks, but no thanks, he for some reason thought a better idea would be to get on the defensive.

 

_14C Montague St_

_London EC1A, UK_

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

 

_3rd September 2009_

_Dear John,_

 

_I am flattered by your interest in me but I cannot, for the life of me, see where I have given you the impression that I would actually want to meet you.  While I do find you interesting to write to, and you are a fantastic way to vent off some of the frustration that I develop from being surrounded by the average idiot on a daily basis, I honestly do not think that there would be any benefitting reason for me to actually go out of my way to physically meet you._

_I do believe that you would be better off and catching up with one, or several, of your many friends still in London and spending the time getting wasted, as you so commonly put it, and chasing after whatever woman you seem to find attractive at the time.  Such activities hold no interest for me and I am sure I would only ruin your evening._

_Again, I thank you for wanting to try and engage me in your time off duty, but I think it is safe to say that our relationship, if it could be called that, would be better off left as it is._

 

_Sherlock_

Little could Sherlock know, as he slowly trudged home from the corner, where the post box was, feeling something akin to a painful illness at actually sending that letter to John, was that eleven days later, the day John would receive the letter, John would be shot, so therefore he couldn’t know that the reason that there was no response was not that John was angry (which he had been, but not for the reasons Sherlock would think) but because he had been deemed critical when he made it to the operating theatre, died on the operating table twice only to be resuscitated so he could then fall severely ill due to infection, which set it’s ugly claws into his brand new wound.  Sherlock couldn’t know all this as the only man who could tell him all of this was barely able to speak a full sentence, let alone write out an entire letter.  

~o~

**Sunday 4th October 2009**

Sherlock paced back and forth.  It was Sunday.  Mail wasn’t delivered on a Sunday and it had been over four weeks since Sherlocks last letter.  He thought he would have had a reply by now.  He tugged his dressing gown around his waist even tighter.  Of course he hadn’t gotten a reply.  Even Sherlock, with his limited knowledge on social etiquette, knew that what he had written had been harsh.  It was why he had almost thrown up after returning from posting it.  It was why he lay awake at night trying not to imagine how John would have read it and then ripped it to pieces, throwing it away, deciding that Sherlock just wasn’t worth the effort.  And he really wasn’t, but John was.  John was funny and interesting and loyal to his friends.  He was genuinely a good person and Sherlock, once again, found himself looking forward to Johns correspondence, even when John was having a bad day.  Deciding that, even if John thought that Sherlock was a right arse, he still needed to try and apologise, Sherlock sat at his desk and wrote a new letter.

 

_14C Montague St_

_London EC1A, UK_

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

 

_4th October 2009_

_Dear John,_

 

_I am sure you have guessed by now that I am rude, brash and impulsive.  What you may not know, or probably do actually, is that I am not overly confident when it comes to social interactions.  I find them tedious and frustrating and I never know what I am expected to do or say.  Most meetings I have with the general public, and also with those who know me, end up with someone getting angry or crying and on the odd occasion, with violence.  I just don’t have the people skills to carry out simple, basic social interactions.  It would probably help if people weren’t so predictably boring or idiotically stupid._

_What I am trying to tell you, John, is that when you wrote me, asking if I would like to meet you, I may possibly have had an extremely mild panic attack.  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to meet you, but I wasn’t sure if I could.  At least not without you throwing the sugar bowl at my head and storming out, never to talk to me again, and that thought didn’t sit too well with me, so instead I wrote you a letter refusing to see you and since it has been over a month since I have heard from you I have realised, upon reflection, that my last letter may possibly have been a bit insulting towards you._

_I apologise.  That was not my intention.  So if you could please ignore everything that was previously written and allow me to tell you that I would dearly like to meet you for coffee but I cannot make any promises as the thought of messing up this easy back and forth we have going does make me feel quite uncomfortable._

_I do hope that my last letter has not put you off permanently and that you can see it in yourself to continue our communication._

_I look forward to hopefully hearing from you again.  Please try not to get shot._

 

_Sherlock._

~o~

After two and a half weeks, there still wasn’t anything, so Sherlock sent another package with tea and jaffa cakes and another letter.

_14C Montague St_

_London EC1A, UK_

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

 

_21st October 2009_

_Dear John,_

 

_I hope this package finds you well.  I took note of what teas you preferred from my last package and have included a package of each. I have also added in a packet of jaffa cakes.  I am not sure where you stand on jaffa cakes but I am certain that they should be a part of every healthy diet._

_I solved a most interesting case last week.  It involved a missing husband and a man with a twisted lip, who turned out to be, in fact, the same person.  If you are interested I can send you all of the details of the case.  I actually managed to go the entire time without making Donovan angry or Anderson cry._

_Mycroft went out of town last week so I let myself into his apartment (he still hasn’t realised that I know how to bypass all of his security.  It is, to date, my greatest accomplishment!), I then removed all of his clothes, took them to a seamstress and had them all taken in an inch.  He now believes that he put on weight while he was gone, and I am fairly certain that he has actually lost a little bit._

_Please, when you find the time, write back.  I do miss your anecdotes of your time away.  I also miss getting your advice on subjects.  It occurred to me the other day, that all this time we have been writing to each other when, since I left rehab, we could have actually been emailing each other.  It would have been much faster._

_It has also dawned on me that I have no idea what you look like.  Not even a description.  Well, I suppose we can rectify that when you come back to London in December, that is, if you are still interested in catching up.  Of course, if you have other plans, that is fine also._

_I do hope to hear from you soon.  Please continue to not get shot._

 

_Sherlock._

 

~o~

**Wednesday 2nd December 2009**

Sherlock opened up his letterbox and withdrew the two envelopes that were inside.  He was pretty certain that his heart actually stopped beating for a moment when he saw the address on the envelope.  It was to John, from him.  It was his last letter that he has sent John and a big red stamp had been placed in the top left hand corner.  ‘ _Return To Sender.’_

Once Sherlocks heart started beating again he felt his stomach drop down to his feet and he carefully opened the letter he had sent two and a half weeks ago and read over the few brief words he had written to John.

 

_14C Montague St_

_London EC1A, UK_

_5th Northumberland Fusiliers_

_Kandahar Afghanistan_

 

_10th November 2009_

_Dear John,_

 

_Please, please accept my apology.  If not, at least write back telling me to piss off, just so I know._

 

_Sherlock_

 

He crushed the letter in his hand and took the stairs up to his flat.  Clearly John wasn’t writing back anymore.  Either Sherlock had truely pissed him off or he had been killed in action.  Sherlock was 99% certain it was the former.  If he really wanted to know, he could go to his brother for confirmation on John’s welfare, but if the man was dead, Sherlock didn’t think he could bare the news.  He would rather believe that John just didn’t want to talk to him any more.  After all, that was what was bound to happen any way.  It had happened before and it only would have been a matter of time before it happened again.  It was better this way.

Sherlock had to tell himself this, because that was how he coped. 

Once he reached the flat, he threw not-Johns-letter-anymore in the bin and opened up the other letter that had been in his mail box.  It was from his landlord.  He had two weeks to find new lodgings as it appeared his neighbours, after multiple ignored complaints, could no longer tolerate the odd smells coming from his flat, nor the late night violin solos.  It was hardly Sherlocks fault that the walls were paper thin, and he certainly didn’t appreciate hearing them shag all night either. He sighed at the thought of having to box everything up and find somewhere else to live.

Looking around he decided that it actually wasn’t a bad thing.  Maybe a new start was just what he needed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I like to think that Sherlock got John hooked on the little liars books and when John finds out that it has been turned into a TV show as well, in 2010 he gets hooked on that too, much to Sherlocks disgust. The disgust only grows when John tells him that it was his fault that he got hooked in the first place - he did send him that book after all.
> 
> ** If you don’t know what a Chillow is, (because I didn’t until I wrote this) , then check out this web page https://www.globalshop.com.au/products/chillow. I now know what I want for Christmas!!


	4. It’s nice to finally meet you, again.

~~~~~~~~~~

 

28B Khartoum Road 

Plaistow, London

E13 8RF, UK

 

_14C Montague St_

_London EC1A, UK_

 

9th December 2009

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

 

_Oh my god, I am so sorry I haven’t been replying.  My mail was delayed in being transferred to me._

_I should probably start this letter by explaining what has happened these past few months._

_On the 14th September a small group of Taliban Insurgents attacked our base. The damage to our side was minimal but to cut a long story short, I was shot.  By the time that the situation was brought under control and I had been taken to the hospital I had lost a lot of blood and gone into shock.  They managed to patch up the shoulder and I was transferred to a hospital in Landstuhl, Germany, which really sucked because I don’t speak a word of German, but that is not important now.  Between Kandahar and Landstuhl infection set in, which caused even more complications.  For four weeks I was bedridden.  It then took another month for recuperation.  I was then sent back to London, where I have been trying to rebuild up the strength in my shoulder._

_Three days ago I finally got all of my belongings, including the letters that you sent me, from the army.  I know that that is no excuse for not writing to you since I have been home, but after your last letter and feeling pretty shitty with myself due to my current condition, I honestly wasn’t up to talking to anyone and to be honest, I would have been awful company._

_But yes, of course I would be happy to still meet up with you.  Whenever you are free.  It’s not like I have anything scheduled, so whatever suits you best. My phone number, if you want to call or text, is 07774 123 456, although, if you call don’t be disgruntled if I hang up on you without answering.  I am still trying to figure out how the damned thing works.  And don’t worry about pissing me off.  I know what you are like.  I’m not expecting polite conversation and perfect table manners._

_I also received your jaffa cakes.  My stance on them, is pretty much on par with yours, and while they were a bit crushed, they still tasted fantastic, so thanks by the way.  The tea was also greatly appreciated as I was running low by the time I got your parcel._

_I look forward to hearing from you again and I am sorry it has been such a long time coming._

_Please write, or call.  I really do want hear from you again._

 

_John._

~o~

**Thursday 10th December 2009**

Sherlock played the notes perfectly, until, as he looked out his window, he saw a group of carollers heading down Baker Street, and the notes he was playing suddenly sounded screechy and discorded.  

“Well, that was an unexpected ending to the song, dear.  Have you thought of maybe re-writing it?”

“You don’t write music, Mrs Hudson, you compose it” he replied with a sneer and an air of superior authority as he watched the carollers get closer to 221B.

“Either way, I think it needs a re-do.”

Sherlock didn’t answer her as he was too busy flinging the window open.  “If you dare push that doorbell I will find the biggest bucket I have and fill it with the coldest water I can and dump it all over you” he yelled down at the group of four people getting ready to climb the few stairs to the building.

Three of them looked up at him with fear while the other just stuck her finger up at him.  “ _Fucking Scrooge_ ” she yelled, and the group moved on to Mrs Turner and her married ones.  Sherlock slammed the window shut and turned to his landlady.

“Oh dear, the neighbours” she tittered, dropping the envelope she had brought up with her onto the coffee table and turning to hurry out the room, presumably to go and apologise to said neighbours. 

“Yes, warn them that idiots are about to ring their doorbell” Sherlock called after her and then, dropping his violin onto the couch he made his way over to the coffee table and picked up the envelope she had dropped.  

Obviously it was for him and clearly it was a card.  Judging by the neat cursive writing on the front of the envelope, it was from Mrs Hudson.  Reluctantly he opened the envelope and pulled out the card which had a silhouette of a flying sleigh and reindeer against the snow flecked night sky, the words ‘ _Wishing You a Joyous Christmas’_ sprawled across the front of the card in silver writing.  

Not bothering to read it, Sherlock flung the card across the room with a flick of his wrist.  It hit the wall above the fireplace and then dropped down to land behind the skull.  _It would do_ , he decided and then stalked to his room to get dressed.  God, he hated Christmas.  He needed something to do to get his mind off of this horrid festive season.  Anything would do.  Maybe Lestrade would have a good murder for him.

He was on his way downstairs when Mrs Hudson returned from soothing the neighbours.  “By the way , your rent is late again dear” she said kindly, patting Sherlocks arm affectionately.  

Sherlock placed his hand over hers, for some reason feeling calmer.  Mrs Hudson had that effect on him sometimes.  “I’ll have it to you by the end of the day” he promised and she smiled up at him.  

“I know you will dear, just like I know you’re sometimes a bit forgetful about these things” and then she made towards her flat.

Sherlock stepped outside and, instead of heading towards Scotland Yard, he made his way to the closest store he would be able to purchase a Christmas card at.  He could slip the rent inside of the card.

~o~

**Wednesday 23rd December 2009**

John looked up at the number on the door and took a deep breath.  Here he was, at 14C Montague Street and, after telling himself firmly that he could do this, he found himself unable to move.  

It had been two weeks since he sent his last letter to Sherlock and when there had been no reply, John had worried.  Had it been too long since he had responded, had Sherlock decided that he wasn’t worth it anymore.  Had Sherlock injured himself in some ridiculous experiment or was he back in rehab.  John knew the statistics of relapses and he had read between the lines of Sherlocks letters carefully to look for any signs, but there hadn’t been any letters since September.  Well, at least he hadn’t thought there had been until two weeks ago, when he finally received all of his belongings that had been forwarded on from the army and amongst that had been all of Sherlocks letters, plus two new ones.  

Reading them had brought back feelings of anger he had felt after reading the last letter he had gotten from Sherlock, just before he had been shot.  He was angry at Sherlock for reducing what they had developed as just a simple case of back and forth correspondence to let off steam or pass the boredom.  Then he had been angry at himself for turning what was clearly just a simple case of acquaintances, if two people who had never met could be called that, into something more than it clearly was.  

After that he had felt relieved at Sherlock wanting to meet and anguished at the way the man, normally so confident and disinterested in the views of those around him, was reduced to insecurities about meeting John and afraid that John would not only leave him for good, but would chuck the sugar bowl at his head first.  (That thought had made John smile, just a bit.)  He had realised how hard it would have been for Sherlock to write those words and it had pulled him out of the rut he had gotten himself into after being told he would not be able to perform surgeries anymore and had been honourably discharged from his position as Captain in the RAMC.  It was that letter that had driven him to write one back to Sherlock the very day he had received his belongings and it had brightened him up.

Two weeks later though and John was feeling nervous all over again.  Any confidence that he had had that Sherlock would happily receive him shrivelled away and John found himself readying to turn away and leave, but he was stopped by the door suddenly flinging open and he was greeted by a very startled looking woman, clearly ready to head out for the evening.

“Oh, hello” she said, trying to hide her surprise at finding a strange man on the other side of her door.  “Can I help you with something?”

John shuffled nervously on his feet, tightening the grip he had on the handle of his cane as the thought that Sherlock had found a new distraction in this young woman to replace John’s lack of response.  “Umm, sorry, I was just looking for someone” he answered, suddenly unsure if he should continue or just walk away.

The woman looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to divulge who it was he was in fact inquiring after.  “Sher…Sherlock Holmes” he stuttered and his heart sank when he saw the woman’s eyes widen in recognition.  

“Who is it, babe?” came a deep voice from somewhere inside the flat.  The woman just turned back and yelled, “Someone looking for the previous tenant.”

Something twisted and felt a bit lighter in the vicinity of Johns stomach at hearing her words and then there was a man standing behind her. “Fantastic” he grinned.  “You know Mr Holmes” he stated towards John.

John gave a single, short nod.  “Sort of.  We…”

“Great” the man said cutting him off and handing John a small bundle over the woman’s shoulder.  “Maybe you can pass these on and possibly ask him to get his mail redirected.  As of now, we won’t be holding onto it any more.”

John stared at the bundle in the man’s hand, seeing Sherlocks name written in Johns hand, on the top envelope.  When the man gave his hand a little jiggle, John reached out and took the bundle awkwardly in his right hand.  “Sure thing” he mumbled and then turned around and limped out of the building no longer anxious, just depressed.

Sherlock hadn’t gotten his letter and John had no idea how to find him.

~o~

**Thursday 24th December 2009**

Not being an overly tech-savvy sort of guy, it didn’t occur to John to look Sherlock up on the internet.  If he had, he would have found a website titled ‘ _The Science of Deduction’_ which provided an email address and a mobile phone number.  

It also would have made looking for work a lot easier, as more Jobs were listed on Job Search Websites and allowed you to upload your resume straight to their email address.  But as it was, John was still trying to figure out the phone his sister gave him and had only just mastered logging into his blog and adding a title.  He possibly could have mastered how to post entries, but despite what his therapist said, he didn’t have anything to write, so it was because John struggled with the internet and hated his bedsit that he found himself in a little Cafe he had heard someone mention at the bus stop a few days ago.  They had been right.  Speedy’s did have the best Chicken Salsa sandwiches he had ever had.  

He was half way through his sandwich with the paper spread open over the table.  He had gone through all the job vacancies and was now looking at flats for rent, just to pass the time.  It wasn’t like he could actually afford to rent any of them out, at least not until he got a job, but it was something to do.

“Can I get you a fresh cup of tea, dear?” the elderly woman, who had been behind the counter earlier offered as she swept past to clear off one of the other tables.  John looked up from the paper, where he had absent-mindedly circled some properties that would have been nice to rent, had he not been so fucking poor.  

“I’m right, thanks.  Almost finished here, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Oh, nonsense” the woman replied with a wave of her hand.  “You take as long as you need, young man and I’ll grab you that tea, on the house” and before John could reply, she was gone.  

It didn’t take her long to return, by which time John had finished his sandwich, and she placed a fresh cup of steaming tea in front of him.  “House hunting is an ordeal these days, isn’t it.”

John just hummed his agreeance and picked up the tea, taking a sip.  He didn’t feel like explaining to this woman, as kind as she seemed to be, that he wasn’t actually looking.  “Thanks for the tea” he said, but she just gave him a friendly smile and looked down at the selections he had circled.

“How do you feel about the violin, dear?” she asked and John stopped twiddling his pen and frowned at the non sequitur. 

“Umm, it’s nice, I suppose” he answered, letting his hand continue the doodling it had been doing down the centre of the page.

“Lovely” she replied with that smile again and John couldn’t help but feel that he had missed something.  “I know of the perfect little place if you don’t mind sharing.  There’s an upstairs room.”

“I’m sorry but I’m not really…”

But the woman continued on.  “Not far from here at all, and the rent is really a good price.  Especially since you’ll be sharing it.  Mind you, he is a bit odd, but a dear boy.  He means well.”

“I’m sorry, but you seem to have lost me” John admitted and shut his paper, preparing to stand up and leave this lovely woman who may possibly have a few marbles loose.  

“My current tenant dear” She stated simply.  “He is a well meaning lad but is quite forgetful sometimes and, despite what he says, is terribly lonely.  Someone around, even if it is just to share a living space and remind him to pay the rent on time, would do wonders for his morale. “

John stood up.  “Right, thank you for the lovely offer, but I really am not looking for a place right now.”

The woman raised her eyebrows and looked down at the paper which was now resting, closed and folded on the table top.  

“Just passing the time, and to be honest, even if I was looking, I’m probably not the person to cheer your friend up.”

“Well, dear, maybe he will be the person to cheer you up” she answered and John almost forgot that he was raised to be polite and respectful to his elders, but her next words almost floored him.

“Sherlock doesn’t even talk somedays, let alone notice if you are there or not.  Probably the ideal sort of flatmate if you are not wanting to live with someone overly social.”

 _Sherlock_ , John thought.  Surely not?  Surely it wasn’t his Sherlock.  But Sherlock wasn’t exactly a common name, was it. 

“It’s just next door.  You can come now and view the flat.  I can’t guarantee that Sherlock will be in, but he was still in his pyjamas when I left earlier” she tattled on and John registered that she was turning away.  “I’ll just let Mr Chatterjee know that I am heading out for a bit.  I’ll be back in a tick” she said and was off at the counter discussing something with a rather round Indian man.  

As quick as she was gone, she was back again.  “Come along dear” she said and looped her arm around his.  Stupefied, John followed, still having trouble comprehending that he was quite possibly about to meet Sherlock Holmes.  After 28 years.

“There are stairs, that won’t be a problem, will it?” She asked, bring Johns attention back to the now as they stepped out of the warm cafe’ into the late afternoon chill.

“Ah, no I shouldn’t imagine so” John replied, shivering into the wind.  “I have stairs at my current place.”

The woman just patted his arm gently.  “I’m Mrs Hudson by the way” she told him as she led him to the building right next to the cafe.

“John” John replied, watching as the woman dug around in her handbag for a set of keys.  “John Watson.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, John Watson.  Ah, here we are” and she pulled a small keyring out of the bag and inserted the key in the lock of the black door that bared the brass numbers 221B.

“It’s just up here” she motioned and took the stairs that lead up to the second floor apartment.  “Don’t mind the smell.  Sherlock tells me that it isn’t lasting.  Something to do with donkey livers or some such thing.  I never really understand what he is on about.  It is just best to nod and smile and agree with him most of the time, trust me.”

John just nodded and smiled and agreed with her.

“Here we are” she announced as they reached the landing.  The door to the flat was wide open and looking in, it appeared to be empty, not a sound could be heard beyond the traffic outside.

“Sherlock” Mrs Hudson called, stepping into the living room, which John noted was cluttered with all sorts of odd things.  “His coat is here, so he won’t be far” she told John, nodding in the direction of a great dark grey woollen thing that look like it cost a fortune, hanging limply and slightly damp on the hook.  A blue scarf had pooled on the floor beneath it.

“Come on in dear, have a look.  He’s bound to be here somewhere, oh, there you are” and at that Johns attention turned from what was without a doubt a real human skull on the mantel piece to the person who had just entered the room.

Johns whole world stopped and it appeared that the man, Sherlock, was just as gobsmacked as he, himself was.

“I thought it might be nice to rent out the top room” John vaguely head Mrs Hudson prattle.  He was too busy staring at a face he hadn’t seen in years.  Ten years to be exact.  

“Sherlock, this is…”

“…John” Sherlock cut in and something inside of John did a bit of a loop-dee-loop at the fact that Sherlock…Scott…Sherlock had remembered him.

“John Watson” John said, holding out his hand. 

“John _Watson_ ” Sherlock repeated taking the offered hand.  Neither of them actually shook.

“Formally of Lambeth” John stated, just to clarify.  A small smile picked up the corners of Sherlocks mouth.

“No fucking way” he murmured softly, and John couldn’t help the returning smile.

“It’s nice to finally meet you” John said, Sherlocks hand still clasped in his.

“Again” Sherlock said, making no move to drop Johns hand. 

“Again” John agreed and neither man noticed their landlady quietly making her way out of the flat with a satisfied smile on her face.  They didn’t notice anything, except for each other as the carollers across the road sang and the snow started to gently fall outside.  

~o~

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the sound of deep, gentle breathing, interspersed with the occasional snuffle, calm him.  The weight of John Watson against his chest kept him grounded and the clean, earthy smell of him made Sherlock smile.  

John was here.  With him.  Asleep on the couch, with Sherlock.  

When he had entered the lounge room to see what his landlady was shouting about he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  At first it took him a while to place the face, but that night, ten years ago, flooded him memory.  When he had found out that it was his John, formerly of Lambeth, his whole world seemed to narrow down to the man in front of him.  Nothing else mattered.

Once they had finally gotten over the shock of finding each other, of finally seeing each other (again, and actually knowing who each other was) they spent the afternoon catching up, talking about things that had happened since they last spoke.  

Over the afternoon the two of them had gradually been drawn closer together until, while listening to John tell yet another story about what he and Bill Murray had done during an April Fools prank, Sherlock took Johns hand.  Johns words didn’t falter and he didn’t try and pull away.  In fact, he wrapped his own fingers around Sherlocks.

John had stayed for dinner and accepted the room on the top floor.  

As Sherlock sat back, full from the largest meal he had eaten in over a week,  John reached out and cupped his cheek.

“I’m glad I found you again” he said and Sherlock smiled.  Then John kissed him.  

It was soft, barely there, but Sherlock ducked his head down and returned it all the same.  

That night they fell asleep on the couch, well, John fell asleep.  Sherlock stayed awake to watch John and just feel him being there with Sherlock and for once in his life Sherlock felt at peace.  In his arms he finally had someone he wanted to keep.  He had John. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Pointless tidbit of the day: Johns phone number is the example trip advisor give on their website when explaining how people in Australia should call people in England. Please don’t call it. It might actually belong to someone!


End file.
